


The Sentinel Versus the Ice Cream Truck

by franscats



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franscats/pseuds/franscats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Ellison is having trouble with his senses.  Additionally, an ice cream truck is parked in front of his building playing the same "tinny" music, over and over.  When Jim goes down to complain about the noise, he meets Blair Sandburg, graduate student and seller of ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sentinel Versus the Ice Cream Truck

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Alternate Universe and First Time Meeting
> 
> This is rated PG mostly for some mild language and pre-slash.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions who own the rights to (fandom and said characters), I do not. No money has exchanged. No harm, slander, defamation of character or company intended.

James Ellison, Jim to his few friends, wandered around his loft dust pan in one hand, broom in the other, examining the floor. He couldn’t stand dirt and kept up a one man crusade against its infiltration into his territory. Any “normal” onlooker would swear that he was winning this war; there was not a scrap of dirt to be seen, but just to be on the safe side, Jim gave another look around. Sometimes, his eyes seemed to see deeper and further than was really possible and he would see dirt ingrained deep in the wood and yet, at other times, the wood seemed clean. Sighing, as he finished and put the broom away, he shook his head. At the moment, his senses seemed to be working normally, he wasn’t hearing voices from far away and his skin wasn’t breaking into rashes and bothering him, but that could change so swiftly that he couldn’t take feeling normal for granted any longer. 

His boss, Simon Banks, knew about the problem he was having with his senses. The man had told him, as a friend, that maybe it was stress related, the Switchman case getting to him more than the other detectives in the department since the bomber seemed to be taunting him. Everyone was in high gear to catch the Switchman, but Ellison was lead detective on the case. Jim nodded, agreeing with the police captain, but he didn’t believe it was stress related. Jim understood stress, a lot of his covert operations in the Army Rangers had been stress related, but there didn’t seem to be any point in arguing, and so he went home early Friday to spend a long weekend regrouping. Barring another bombing, he intended to stay in the loft and just relax until Monday and try and forget how close he had come to catching the Switchman before his sight had played tricks on him.

He had stopped to pick up some groceries and beer on the way home and then headed up to the loft, the elevator actually working for once. Inside, he had put everything away and cleaned the apartment before grabbing a cold brew and heading to the balcony to soak in the warm afternoon weather. 

It was a sunny day, warm and dry, a rarity in Cascade, and he took a swig of beer as he watched the scenery. Feeling a bit more relaxed as his body responded normally, he moved back into the apartment and dropped onto the coach, glancing around. The apartment was what he called “uncluttered” but what his ex-wife called “bare and sterile.” Those were her last thoughts about the place before she moved out calling their marriage over. Jim couldn’t blame her for the divorce. They were just two very different types of people, Carolyn was outgoing and warm, showing her emotions to the world and Jim was never one to explore his emotions much less share them. The pair had realized that they really weren’t meant to be together and the marriage had petered out rather than end explosively. 

Settling back into the cushions, Jim decided he would take a short nap, and then make some dinner if he could find something his taste buds would live with. Closing his eyes he relaxed, his senses in alignment with the world as he eased into light sleep. 

It was the annoying tinny sound that finally caught his attention. It kept playing the same awful stanza over and over like some piece of music that could get stuck in a person’s head and slowly drive them to madness or a painful end. Opening clear blue eyes, Jim heard the noise but it didn’t filter lightly up, it sounded like some bullhorn that was screaming at him. With a groan, hands covering his ears, Jim staggered to the balcony and looked down at the street. Below, he could see the offender, a white truck running its engines to keep the refrigeration system going as its driver dispensed sweet treats to youngsters about the neighborhood. 

“Oh hell,” Jim turned and went back into the loft shutting the door. How long could an ice cream truck sit in front of his door anyway? Five minutes later, Jim glanced at the clock with annoyance; ten minutes later he again groaned burying his head in a pillow to muffle the noise. When the truck was still playing outside 15 minutes later he began to growl. Twenty minutes later, Jim stood and deliberately leaving his gun in the loft, lest he shoot someone, the detective grabbed his keys and walked down to the street.

On the street, the dispenser of ice cream and in Jim’s case misery, was talking with two of the young children as he leaned over the counter of the truck to hand out ice creams. Stepping behind the two young children, Jim scowled looking at the young man. He was young, mid twenties, with long, chestnut brown, curly hair and deep, sapphire blue eyes. His face was open and expressive as he looked at the children, his smile warm. Looking over the ice cream salesman, Jim categorized him quickly as: one a throw back hippie, probably a college kid, and two, physically beautiful with an open inviting face and incredibly expressive blue eyes – or he would be if not for the music he was broadcasting.

The children, realizing someone was behind them, turned and seeing the large, muscular man with a severely clenched jaw, quickly stepped away as the ice cream truck driver looked up and smiled pleasantly. “What can I get for you?” he asked, straightening and assessing the less than friendly demeanor.

“How about some peace and quiet Chief? You’ve had that music blasting for 20 minutes and some of us are trying to sleep.” The ice cream truck operator turned and looked back at the controls, quizzically. He wouldn’t call the music “blasting” he had the speakers on the lowest possible music setting and he was next to the speaker without hurting his own ears but there was no doubt the customer before him was finding it too loud. Strong hands were covering the man’s ears as he glared at the ice cream trucker operator.

“Sorry,” he turned off the music. “I guess I’ve gotten so used to it that I don’t hear it anymore.” He glanced again at the man in front of him. “Let me give you an ice cream, on the house, as an apology.”

“No thanks,” Jim answered brusquely and watched the young man shrug off the response as he straightened to move his truck. Turning to leave, the detective stopped. In the distance, he could see a mother and very young son waving and racing towards the truck. “Ah Chief,” he watched the man turn. “You might want to hold up a minute for the kid,” he indicated the direction. Turning the ice cream vendor stared down the street.

“Where?” he asked, seeing no one.

“Three o’clock,” Jim answered giving the direction using a clock dial as reference. The ice cream man looked again squinting at two figures in the distance.

“You sure they want ice cream?”

“Well, they are waving at you, the little kid holding up two dollars,” without another word Jim turned and entered his building, the ice cream man’s eyes following him with interest before turning back to squint at the figures in the distance.

Sure enough, as the ice cream truck operator a.k.a. graduate student in anthropology, Blair Sandburg, discovered, the two people came huffing and puffing up some minutes later to buy their cones, the little boy waving two dollars up at the man. Selling them the confection all the while working on auto pilot, Blair watched the door of the building where the man with sensitive hearing and extraordinary eyesight had disappeared. “Two hyper senses,” he whispered to himself excitedly as he moved to the driver’s seat and started up, waiting until he reached the corner to switch on the music. “And not taste or smell.” Something inside Blair started tingling with excitement and he glanced again back at the building taking note of where it was. “Hearing and sight, I wonder if…” he didn’t finish the thought but hope started welling up in his gut as he moved his truck to the next block.

Selling ice cream was a seasonal business, and in Blair’s case, part time work that supplemented his grant and teaching incomes. It gave him money for such non essentials as car repairs, gas, and food but it was not an all consuming part of his life. Therefore, it was odd to find him driving the truck around Cascade the next day (he never worked the weekend shift) and impatiently waiting for the route on Prospect. His friend, George, had been happy to switch shifts with him, and Blair cruised the truck down the street making a long leisurely stop before 852 Prospect, hoping to meet the man again.

Jim, already in pain from a headache that wouldn’t quit, was trying to relax after a bad night’s sleep when he heard the hauntingly familiar music, AGAIN! Thinking about getting his gun and shooting the speakers, the ice cream man, or himself, he growled waiting for the truck to leave but after ten minutes of throbbing pain in time to the music, got off the sofa and went down to face his enemy. Blair smiled when he appeared. He had hoped that he would see the man. Hell, he was willing to stalk the street if necessary. Finishing serving the children, he immediately switched his attention to the larger man.

“Chief can’t you do that on the next block?” Ellison asked, and Blair flicked off the music.

“Sorry man,” his voice carried no hint of such feeling. If anything he sounded excited. “My job you know. It helps keep me in grad school.” Jim nodded and turned back towards the building but Blair wasn’t about to let him escape. “Ah listen man, wait. Could you please…” he paused as Ellison turned, light blue eyes assessing him in a less than friendly fashion. “Uhm, could I get your help. I invented a new ice cream and I need a taste tester.”

“Do I look like a guinea pig?” Jim snapped, but Blair smiled back undeterred.

“Come on man, just a taste. I bet you can’t tell what special flavors are in it.”

“Look chief,” Ellison frowned, “I’m sure you can find someone better able to help you. There are kids all over here.”

“Yeah, kids, I want the opinion of an adult,” Blair brandished the spoon of ice cream dangerously. “Give it a try.” Jim wondered what was up with the young man in front of him but shrugged deciding it wasn’t worth figuring out.

“Will you stop playing music on the block if I do?”

“You’ve got a deal,” Blair laughed.

Jim took the spoon and sniffed at the ice cream suspiciously. It didn’t smell like poison. Sliding the spoon into his mouth he closed his eyes thinking through the flavors. “Walnut, vanilla, coconut and,” Jim frowned opening his eyes to stare at Blair. “A little broccoli.” He looked at Blair as though he were crazy.

“I was trying to get some vitamins into it. The broccoli too much you think?”

“Yeah, I do,” without another word Jim turned and headed back to the building. 

Blair watched him go before looking down at the special ice cream he had made. There were barely traces of broccoli in the ice cream. No normal person would have tasted the vegetable. “Three enhanced senses, “he whispered, “sight, hearing and taste.”

Just as Jim entered, a small gray haired woman was coming out, and Blair watched her stop the tall man and greet him. Obviously, she knew who the mystery man was and so, as soon as she made it to the street, Blair abandoned his truck and walked over to her. “Ma’am,” he addressed her politely trying to think of some way to get the man’s name and apartment number. Blair was always able to think on his feet and so he smiled at the woman. “The gentleman who just left, he forgot his change,” Blair reached in his pocket hoping he had something bigger than a dollar there. Fortunately, a ten came out.

“You mean Detective Ellison?” the woman asked, and Blair nodded.

“Yes ma’am and the last thing I want to do is get on a cop’s bad side. Bad for business.”

“Oh, well, I can return it for you,” the woman turned back towards the house.

“I’d rather do it myself,” Blair smiled. “If you could just tell me which apartment number is his?”

The woman looked over Blair critically. He didn’t seem the dangerous type and Jim Ellison was a detective so he could probably take care of things. As a matter of fact she felt rather safe having him living in the building. “Apartment 307, dear,” she turned back towards her errands. “But the elevator’s not working today. You’ll have to take the stairs.”

“Thank you,” Blair glanced at the ice cream truck and then the apartment. Maybe, now was not the best time to meet the elusive detective. 

Blair had some planning to do.

Sunday afternoon Jim sat on the sofa watching the ballgame, his headache having receded to a small annoyance. On the table before him was his, as of yet, uneaten lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich. Lately, almost everything tasted funny or had no taste at all and his appetite had disappeared with his taste buds. There was no enjoyment in eating food that could be too spicy, too sweet, too bland or too chemically. But food was a necessity or so his stomach reminded him. Grabbing the food as though it were some enemy, he grimaced as he bit into the bread, unsure what reaction he would get though cheese tended to be a stable food staple for him. Finding the sandwich palatable, he watched the game and considered the beer in the fridge. Sometimes it tasted right, sometimes it didn’t, but Jim missed the taste of a cold beer more than he missed the food. He was just considering giving the beer a try, worse case scenario he could spill it out, when there was a knock at the door. Frowning Jim stood. He wasn’t expecting anyone and he walked over opening and leaning against the door.

On the other side of the door stood Blair Sandburg practically bouncing on his heels. “Hi,” he offered shifting a little to keep his backpack on his shoulder while placing a shopping bag on the floor in front of him.

“Chief, do you have some deep seated need to let me know you are here. You didn’t use the music so you announce your presence by knocking on my door.”

Blair gave a nervous laugh. “No man, nothing like that. I’m off today.”

“And do you visit all your customers on your day off? If you did, I doubt you’d have time for very much else.” Jim still stood leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, his large, muscular frame and light blue eyes a major attraction for the young man watching him. 

“No,” Blair smiled, coming back to the present, “just my taste testers.” The last comment actually got a smile from Jim and Blair thrust out a hand. “Blair Sandburg, graduate student in anthropology, teaching assistant, and purveyor of ice cream.” 

After a moment’s hesitation Jim took the offered hand. “Jim Ellison, detective.” 

“Listen, I brought some ice cream in case you have any kids or anything and it’s going to melt out here.” Jim glanced at the bag and then at the student, his eyes moving over the long curls.

“Why?”

“Why?” Blair repeated not sure how to answer. He couldn’t just blurt out his suspicions to Jim Ellison, detective. He couldn’t tell him that Blair suspected he was a sentinel and that he had been searching for one ever since he read of the account by Sir Richard Burton. The man would throw him down the stairs. “I’m working on my doctoral thesis and I thought you might be able to help me with it,” he admitted. Jim straightened at the comment and Blair could tell he was getting ready to slam the door. “Wait,” he begged. “Let me explain.” He looked up pleading and indicated the ice cream. “We could talk over some ice cream.”

“You’ve got two minutes,” Jim answered, not moving, his imposing figure blocking the door, as he leaned almost leisurely against the frame.

Blair took a breath. “I’ve been studying people with enhanced senses,” he began, his hands moving restlessly as he spoke. “People who work for perfume companies with enhanced sense of smell, people with enhanced sense of taste who work in wineries or ice cream companies. It’s how I got my job,” he admitted, with a smile that was not returned, and he looked down at the floor for a moment. “Right,” he looked back up. “And I know you have enhanced senses.” Blair could tell he was losing his audience as Jim reached a hand out for the door frame. “I know about them. I know about you. You have a gift. You can see further, hear better, distinguish flavors.” Blair wanted to add something about scent and touch but he hadn’t seen evidence of either though he suspected Jim was a full sentinel. “Please, let me talk to you about them.” 

Jim looked at the graduate student before him seeing the earnest face and the unbridled enthusiasm. “If I close the door are you going to just stand out there?”

“At least until the ice cream melts and puddles on your floor Jim.” He watched the cop holding his breath, hoping he wouldn’t be sent away.

“You’d better come in,” Jim gave a resigned sigh and watched Blair grab the ice cream before rushing into the loft. “And you are wrong, it’s not a gift, it’s a curse.” 

Blair turned, looking at Jim, his eyes wide and large. “You don’t mean that. Especially, in your line of work.”

“Look Blair,” he tried, but stopped when a large bag of ice cream was thrust into his hands by the energetic grad student.

“I got four different flavors,” Blair said. “Didn’t know what you would like.”

“Blair,” Jim tried again and was interrupted again. 

“Either you should serve that up or put it away, man.” 

Jim gave him a look. “Are you going to keep interrupting me in the hopes that I won’t kick you out?”

“Something like that,” Blair admitted, and got a real chuckle from the detective. 

“Okay, Sandburg,” he gave in, tossing the ice cream into the freezer. “Talk.” 

Blair looked at Jim. Now that he had the floor he wasn’t really sure what to say, especially after Jim had called his senses a curse. “Are all five enhanced?” he asked. “Strange smells sometimes, rashes on the skin for no apparent reason.” He received a nod and stared at his host in awe, before falling into the nearest seat. “A real sentinel,” he whispered, looking over Jim. Blair had suspected this was the case but hearing it confirmed left him dazed.

“A sentinel?” Jim asked, and received a nod as Blair reached for his backpack. 

“An explorer, Sir Richard Burton, not the actor, described them.” Blair was pulling a book out of his backpack with shaking hands before opening it to show Jim. On the page was a picture of a tribal warrior in full war regalia. “If a tribe was lucky it had a special warrior or watchman, Burton called a sentinel. The watchman was chosen because all of his or her senses were enhanced beyond a normal person’s. The sentinel was the protector of the tribe. He or she could tell when an enemy was coming, could sense changes in the climate that might affect the tribe, follow movement of game, anything to help and protect the tribe. The trait isn’t necessary in modern cultures and seems to have died out.” He looked up at Jim. “You are a genetic throwback man.” The minute Blair said it he realized how tactless the last statement was. He could see the effect as Jim’s jaw tightened, his body language suddenly more aggressive as he shut down.

“Look Sandburg, I don’t appreciate being called some kind of freak. So why don’t you just get out before I throw you out.” 

“No,” not the right answer to a request to leave Jim’s place, as two strong hands grabbed the young man and started hauling him towards the door, Blair clutching his book to his chest. “Please, wait Jim. I’m not explaining this right.” He needed this man to see how important and special he was. 

“I’m not interested, Sandburg,” he opened the door, tossing Blair out, before going back and grabbing the backpack to toss it after him. “Don’t come back and don’t play that damn music in front of my house.” Closing the door, Jim went back into the loft.

Blair stood there looking at the closed door, cursing his fate, and his tactless mouth. Here he was within reach of the only full sentinel he had ever found, and he had been actively and obsessively searching for one, and he was blocked by several inches of strong wood and one cop’s very pissed attitude. He needed Jim, to study yes, but more importantly to help. The man was obviously having trouble with his senses and needed a guide. Had he lived in a tribe he would have been given one by the shaman. Sentinels did not work well alone. They received too much sensory input, and could zone on it, so they were invariably paired with a guide or partner to keep them grounded. But he hadn’t gotten a chance to explain this to Jim. Staring at the door, Blair tried to think how he could fix this situation because he was damn sure he wasn’t losing his sentinel.

Inside the apartment Jim glared at the door before going to the fridge to get a beer. “Damn kid,” he muttered, as he grabbed a bottle and turned to the balcony. “A throwback,” he growled, stepping outside and glancing around at the street below where he could see Sandburg, heading to a pile of junk Corvair. It was then Jim realized the light wasn’t bothering him the way it usually did and the headache that had been a constant companion for the last week had finally eased. Sighing, he went back inside and back to the game he had been watching. Opening the beer, he tentatively tasted the brew, and smiled when his taste buds approved. Forgetting about Sandburg he settled back feeling normal for the first time since he had been on the Switchman stake out in the country. He had been there for days, isolated and waiting for the bomber and it was when he came back that his senses seemed to go haywire. Maybe, he hoped, they were finally getting back in line.

As Jim watched the game, Blair looked up at the apartment building thoughtfully. “Me and my big mouth,” he groaned. “Why couldn’t I start by telling him the advantages? It’s not a curse, it’s a gift and Jim needs to see that.” Sitting in his car, in front of the building, he wondered how he would get Jim to work with him. He would just have to find some way; he wasn’t going to give up. “This is not over Jim, not by a long shot.” He started his car. He would go home and map out a plan.

By Tuesday evening Jim’s headache was back in full force as he made his way up the stairs to his apartment. Angry and frustrated he threw his keys in the basket by the door and grabbed a beer from the fridge, tasting and then spitting the liquid into the sink. It didn’t taste right, again. “Damn,” he groaned. If the beer didn’t taste right, it was back to cheese sandwiches. Yesterday, he had been able to eat real food. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he scratched at his skin. There was a rash forming where he had been splashed by someone’s spray cleaner earlier that day and his eyes hurt from the light. Jim thought about turning on the TV but gave up the idea only half formed; right now the light from the TV would bother his eyes.

Leaning back, the detective considered what Sandburg had said on Sunday about being a watchman with heightened senses. If that was the case, there must be some way of turning them off. After all he had done it before. That thought gave Jim pause as memories suddenly struck. He had forgotten, no more honestly blocked out, his time in Peru when Incacha had guided him and the Chopec shaman had referred to his senses using a word that sounded very much like sentinel. “Lord,” he whispered, rubbing his hands up his face, he didn’t want this. He was a good cop, he didn’t need enhanced senses. As he was considering his plight there was a knock at the door. At first Jim thought about ignoring it but it sounded again and with a sigh of resignation he rose and walked over to the door. Opening it, he stared again at an energetic grad student named Blair Sandburg.

“Hi Jim,” the student smiled. “I brought you more ice cream,’ he didn’t wait for an invitation but darted past the detective speeding into the room and hoping he could find a way to stay there. Stepping back, out of reach as the detective turned, he smiled waving the bag of yet more ice cream as he began speaking. “And before you throw me out, I want you to listen. I looked you up. I know about your time in Peru. I bet your senses were on line but you weren’t swamped with input there. Being in the city has to be hard on you and you need someone to help keep the various inputs at bay. I didn’t get a chance to tell you about the guide thing. You need one to keep from spiking or zoning and you didn’t give me a chance to explain all this before you threw me out and I have to get through it so you understand what you are up against. And what you can do with your senses. You are a walking, organic crime lab. And…” All this was said without so much as a breath and Jim held up a hand.

“Stop Chief, breathe,” Jim ordered closing the door. Blair stopped and gave a sigh of relief since he was on the inside of the closed door and not laying on the floor in the hall or handcuffed for breaking and entering. Jim turned examining the student. 

Blair stood before Jim, staring at the larger man, his blue eyes wide with hope, fear, uncertainty and a host of other emotions. “I can help you,” he whispered at last, stopping.

“You know how to turn them off?” Jim asked and Blair shook his head.

“Why…” he paused swallowing. The idea of a sentinel deliberately stopping being one was something he couldn’t conceive. “Why would you want to man?”

“Because I can’t function with them.” The answer was growled. “I live with a constant headache, food doesn’t taste right, my skin is covered with rashes, everything is too loud, city smells make me gag, and lights cause headaches. Sometimes I lose complete track of time staring at things. Why would I want them?” Jim was bitter about his senses but he felt some relief at finally sharing his dilemma with another person though why with a stranger he couldn’t fathom. But something in the detective told him he could trust Blair Sandburg.

At the admission Blair stepped forward and placed a hand on Jim’s arm, the detective feeling the heat of Blair’s hand radiating against his skin even through his shirt. Generally, he was not touchy feely. He never liked being touched but somehow Blair’s hand felt soothing. “That’s why sentinels had a companion. You need help and I’d like to try to help you. I’ve been studying sentinels for years. You are the embodiment of my work, you’re my Holy Grail. I know you don’t think so, but man, the things you could do would be awesome.”

“What do you get out of it?” Jim asked pinching the bridge of his nose, sounding defeated. He hated having to rely on someone else, especially a young college kid.

“You are my dissertation, I need to study you. It will be a partnership; we’ll both get something out of it.”

Jim looked over Blair thoughtfully, the younger man gazing back steadily, aware that he was under careful scrutiny. “I don’t want my name used.”

“Absolutely not,” the young man agreed, immediately. “We’ll find a way to keep your name out of it.”

Jim considered Blair’s offer but he realized he would accept. He was backed into a corner and the grad student was the only way out. “Okay, what do I do?” he asked.

“The first thing you need is control and that’s where we will start…”


End file.
